The Limits of Denial
by Gypsygrrl
Summary: The Winter War is over and Kensei is back leading the 9th. For six months he's been denying his desire, but finally has to admit that his attempts have been futile.
1. When Denial Stops Working

Disclaimer:_ I don't own Bleach or any of it's characters_--_that honor belongs to Kubo Sensei. I just like to play with them a bit._

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Catching his attention wandering to the empty desk across the room for what seemed like the hundredth time since his fukutaicho had left for the Real World, Kensei was finally forced to acknowledge the truth that he had tried burying deep inside him almost six months ago—he wanted the kid.

So much so that he had sent him off to Karakura town on the flimsiest of pretexts, figuring that if he couldn't _see_ the kid, he wouldn't be tempted, and maybe he would be able to banish each and every base desire Hisagi Shuuhei had ignited within him from the very first moment he had laid eyes on his lithe, bloodstained figure standing across the battlefield, the Visored's brand etched clearly on his face for all to see. The Hollow inside him had immediately surged upwards with the need to lay claim, and only the heat of battle had been able to prevent him from stalking up to his rightful prey and taking what he wanted.

After the last battle had been fought and Soul Society had found themselves the victors of the War, old man Yamamoto had astonished them all when he'd offered the Visoreds their old positions among the Gotei 13, and Kensei had discovered that the dark-haired shinigami that had captured both his and his Hollow's attention was not only the fukutaicho of his old division, but the kid he had saved more than a century before. Those dark eyes had haunted his memories for decades, the last good memory he had of Soul Society before Aizen had shown his true colors and his 5th seat had stabbed him in the back, and the combination of that gaze—dry and world-weary in a way they had not been a century before—and the mark on his cheek symbolizing the admiration and gratitude he held for the man Kensei no longer was had made the Vizard ruthlessly lock away his desire.

Unfortunately, desire was a slippery thing and not so easily subdued.

It slipped through chinks in its prison, sending tendrils of warm, rolling want through him at the slightest provocation: the spare elegance of his fukutaicho training with members of the division, lithe form moving fluidly as he sparred with new recruits and seated officers alike; the husky rasp of a voice damaged by a near fatal blow to the throat during the War, inquiring politely if his taicho would like some tea; the trio of scars running down the right side of his face that was a constant reminder of the friends he had lost and the three that had saved him, a mark of remembrance and devotion just as powerful as the bold black lines stamped across his left cheekbone. He ignored each and every one of these attributes, forcing himself to think of other faces and other bodies when he lay in his empty bed at night, hand wrapped securely around his cock and stroking himself to completion so he might sleep without dreaming of the man the boy had grown into. And it had been working, more or less, until suddenly it wasn't, and with a sense of desperation previously unknown to him, he had sent his fukutaicho to the Real World, hoping that he would be able to get a grip upon his unruly desire before he simply dragged the kid off and fucked him into the nearest hard surface.

He swore aloud this time when he realized his gaze had slid to the desk yet again, but this time he didn't force his attention elsewhere. For the first time in six months he allowed his thoughts free rein, allowed himself to dwell on Hisagi Shuuhei and everything he was, allowed the desire—the hot, unrestrained desire that his fukutaicho roused in him—to spill forth. His cock grew hard as the images flooded his brain: shaggy dark hair framing a face that was all sharp lines and clean planes, strong instead of pretty; dark eyes that weren't quite black but a rich, deep green that sometimes appeared to be dark gray in the right light, eyes that were not at all like that idiot former taicho Urahara's grey-green.

Closing his own eyes, Kensei imagined how that sun-kissed pale skin would feel beneath his callused hands, imagined the sleek lines of that lithe form laid out before him, imagined how it would feel to bury himself as deeply as possibly inside his fukutaicho and have those long legs wrapped securely about his hips as he rode them both into oblivion. Fingers making short work of his hakama, uncaring that he was seated in his office—no one would enter without knocking—he wrapped his hand around his cock, stroking himself with long, slow pulls as the images unfurled in his mind.

After having restrained himself for so long, Kensei felt his orgasm coming all too quickly, but he didn't try to delay it. Spreading his legs a bit more, head tipping back against his chair, he sped up his strokes, imagining the bite of strong, calloused fingers digging into the heavy muscles of his back, panting breaths fanning his neck as his phantom lover clung to him tightly, and he bit his lip hard to hold back a shout as orgasm swept over him.

It went on for what seemed like minutes, spilling across his hand thickly, and he slowed his still stroking fingers to milk the last few drops, slumping back in his chair as the aftershocks of pleasure continued to tingle through him. He hadn't cum so hard in ages—certainly not since he rejoined Soul Society and denied himself from pursuing his fukutaicho. Eyeing the mess he had made, he fruitlessly searched his desk for some tissues, then shrugged and lifted his hand to his mouth, licking away the glistening white seed staining his fingers and leather gloves. Thankfully, his white Captain's haori would cover the rest of the stains well enough for him to make the short trip to his quarters, and once there he would change and pack for a trip to Karakura. His fukutaicho might not look at him as anything other than a respected superior officer and the man who had once saved his life, but Kensei would never know if he simply sat back and did nothing. If his desire was one-sided—well, it wouldn't be the first time, and he had dealt with it in the past and moved on. He tried not to listen to the little voice in his head—his Hollow's voice—telling him that this time it was different, that _Hisagi_ was different, that he should simply go and take what they both wanted so badly, but he shut it up with the ease of long practice. He had never once forced himself on someone and he wasn't about to start now; if the younger man wasn't interested he would have to let it go, find a way to bury all that want—_need —_and move on, just like he'd done every other time.

Rising from his seat, Kensei tucked his haori more securely around his broad frame to hide any stains and left his office.


	2. Uncomfortable Revelations

Heading back to the shouten as twilight settled over a peaceful Karakura, Shuuhei was forced to confront the fact that maybe he had done something to annoy his taicho.

He'd been quietly pleased when his captain had handed him the assignment to the Real World, stressing the importance of collecting intelligence and liaising with the newly created "special" division Yamamoto Soutaicho had created after the War, and he had stepped through the Senkaimon five days ago determined not to fuck things up. He was being entrusted with this mission, which must be important indeed if Taicho was sending his second instead of one of the lower seated officers. He had presented himself at Urahara-san's shop as directed, not the least bit surprised to discover that the wily ex-captain turned shopkeeper had been expecting him—the blond had eyes and ears everywhere. He'd been offered a room furnished quite simply but eminently suitable for his needs, and dinner had been a pleasant affair, allowing him to relax while listening to the shopkeeper gossip about the daily happenings around town—all of which Shuuhei had filed away for his report. All in all, everything had been quite pleasant and he had been looking forward to his assignment—up until he had risen the next morning and sought out the Visoreds in their warehouse to begin his work.

After the first two hours in their company, Shuuhei had felt the beginnings of a headache coming on, but he had persevered. After another hour spent listening to Shinji and Hiyori bickering—the diminutive ex-fukutaicho smacking the blond around the head with one of her sandals after he'd made some thoughtless, asinine comment—Mashiro had plopped herself down next to him, brandishing, of all things, a handful of hair clips and a wide, wide smile that had boded ill for the dark-haired shinigami. Shuuhei knew his hair had been getting rather long of late—he hadn't had any time to get it cut during the past eighteen months—but this? This had been a bit too much. Still, it would have been undignified to flee the warehouse because of such a small thing—and Mashiro-san, he had discovered, might be cute as a button, but she was frighteningly similar to the pink-haired Vice Captain of the 11th division when it came to getting what she wanted. And apparently, she had wanted to play with his hair. Thinking that this was all a test, he had sat there and allowed it, feeling like an absolute fool the entire time. He figured that if he sat there long enough they would get down to business, but after another three hours had passed and the Visoreds had continued to ignore him—with the notable exception of the small green-haired woman who was slowly driving him insane, he had abruptly stood up and excused himself, trying not to make it appear that he was running away. The burst of laughter following his rather undignified exit had made his ears burn and his normally even temper flare, and he had spent the remainder of the day prowling the town in search of some Hollows to cleanse. He had hoped that the next day would be more productive, but it had been more of the same, only this time his patience had worn thin a great deal faster. Four days later he hadn't even lasted an hour among the Visoreds, and he was dead certain now that his taicho was punishing him for something—though for the life of him, he couldn't figure out what he had done to deserve _this_.

Arriving back at his temporary home, he let himself in, toeing his waraji off at the door and grimacing when he realized that he was in desperate need of a bath. His nightly patrol around the town—his only outlet for his current frustrations—had netted him three Hollows, two of which had been easily dispatched, but the third had been big, and nasty, and he'd been flung through a wall before he was able to cleave its mask in two. He was sweaty, bloody, and covered head to toe in dust and dirt. Right now he just wanted a bath and some time to himself.

He had told the shopkeeper that he probably wouldn't be back for dinner, and indeed, it was long past the dinner hour. His nightly patrol, as his frustrations continued to mount, had been lasting longer and longer with each passing day; he knew this couldn't go on much longer, but his orders were set for another two weeks and he flatly refused to run back to Soul Society just because things were more difficult than he had thought they would be.

_Admit it, you__'__re just afraid that you__'__ll piss Taicho off even more if you abandon your mission now. _But he wasn't even certain that his taicho was punishing him…

_No? What would you call it then? Certainly you__'__re just wasting your time here. Maybe he just doesn__'__t want you around? I mean, you served under the man that stabbed him in the back, had wanted to bring that man back to Soul Society__—_

Shuuhei, continuing towards his room, stopped dead in the middle of the hall, staring blindly down the corridor. Could that be it? Could this just be Taicho's way of getting him out of the way so he could find himself a more suitable fukutaicho? One that didn't carry the taint of association with a known traitor?

The thought hurt, far more than it should have.

Forcing himself to move so as not to be caught standing in the hall like an idiot—kami only knew what expression he must have been wearing at that moment—he made his way slowly to his room, feeling suddenly dizzy. Of course his taicho had every right to pick another fukutaicho if he wanted, but he had never given any indication that he was unhappy with Shuuhei's performance. Those first few weeks had seen some rough patches, of course, which was only normal for any transitional period—Shuuhei had grown used to running the division by himself and sometimes had to bite his tongue against issuing orders that were no longer his responsibility to give, and his taicho had grown used to life as a Vizard in the Real World—but they had settled quickly into their respective roles and the division was running more smoothly than ever. If his taicho was a bit distant, well, Shuuhei had merely attributed that to a facet of his captain's personality—but now he was left to wonder if maybe that distance was quite deliberate on the older man's part, and directed specifically at him.

Letting himself into his room, he unslung Kazeshini from his back and propped the sword on the stand near his bed before bending to pull off his tabi.

_Could _he have been that blind?

Making quick work of his sash, he let the length of fabric flutter to the floor, his shihakushou following a moment later. Normally fiendishly neat, he ignored the garment as he scooped up the sleeping yukata lying across the foot of his futon, not even feeling the twinge of protest across his shoulders at the movement, focused solely on the problem at hand. He exited his room, padding silently down the hall in the direction of the bath, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth as his thoughts tumbled one over the other in a mad jumble.

If he had been so blind—if his taicho held him at arms' length not because that was just how he was but because he felt Shuuhei couldn't be trusted—

Sharp teeth pierced soft flesh hard enough to draw blood, but that slight pain was nothing compared to the ache spreading through his chest at the thought that his captain didn't trust him.

Shuuhei entered the bathroom, grateful that he hadn't encountered any of the shouten's inhabitants during his short trip down the hall, especially the sharp-eyed proprietor himself. Those grey-green eyes saw entirely too much, always watching from the shadows beneath the brim of his hat, at odds with his over-the-top behavior; Shuuhei shuddered at the thought of his chaotic emotions being laid bare before that gaze.

Moving mechanically, he stripped off both hakama and underwear, habit taking over as he bent to pick both up, folding them neatly and laying them on a convenient bench set against the wall, placing his yukata alongside his discarded clothes before he crossed the floor to the large bath tub. Turning both taps on to fill the tub, he stepped away to wash away the blood and sweat and grime he'd accumulated earlier in the evening, hoping to scrub away some of the anxiety rising within him at the same time. Wetting himself down with the handheld shower head, he picked up the bar of soap lying nearby and ran it over his skin, hissing as the lather worked its way into various cuts and scrapes and scratches. But the stinging pain did little to distract him from his thoughts.

Muguruma-taicho—for so long he had thought the man dead. He had etched the man's mark on his face in remembrance, regretting that he would never be able to thank his savior for his life, the tattoo forever a symbol of all he had wished to be. And then the Visored had showed up on the battlefield six months ago, and he had discovered that his hero wasn't dead at all. Hollowfied, yes. An abomination in the eyes of Soul Society—but not in his eyes. Never in his eyes.

Rinsing off, he climbed into the tub and turned off the flow of water, settling back against the smooth rim to soak away the physical aches of his body while the one inside his chest grew.

He had gaped up at the man from his position on the ground, hardly believing his eyes as he took in that tall, proud form, and a heady sense of exaltation had filled him, had forced him to his feet and back into battle. He barely remembered meeting Tousen that day, barely remembered lifting his sword against his former captain or the blind man falling. The faces of the Arrancar he had battled blurred together, a tiny thread of his awareness always on the silver-haired Vizard moving through the ranks of the enemy, mask in place and battling for Karakura and the Society that had betrayed him and his companions all those years ago.

Kensei Muguruma.

He tested the name in his head, closing his eyes on a groan as he sank down further in the tub. Just thinking the name conjured an image of the man.

Stern features, amber eyes hard but not cold—never cold. That smile—dangerously sharp, wicked as he plowed through enemies on the battlefield; the child he had been on that long ago day had been struck dumb at the sight of that smile, his tears drying up at the man's urging. The man he had become regarded the sight of that smile in an entirely different light—one that he had tried denying for the past six months.

Feeling his cock stir and knowing that what little privacy he had managed to receive so far would not likely last, he rose to his feet slowly, familiar shame burning through him at the direction of his thoughts. He shouldn't be thinking of his taicho in such a manner, shouldn't fantasize about the man who had saved him all those years ago taking him to bed, and tonight that shame was further compounded by the dull ache in his chest that his thoughts had produced. Lusting after his taicho was bad enough. Lusting after his taicho when it was quite likely that the man wanted him gone was quite another.

Still, his body's demands refused to be ignored, no matter what his mind—and yes, his heart—was saying. Lying awake in his lonely bed, body burning with the need to touch and be touched, he had tried countless times to redirect his fantasies elsewhere, imaging Renji, Kira, Matsumoto—anyone and everyone he found the least bit attractive. But each and every time his thoughts would circle back to a stern face with lambent amber eyes, that powerful body moving over and within his own, and his back would bow on a soft cry as he spilled into his stroking hand.

Shuuhei stepped free of the tub and pulled the plug on the drain, scooping a towel from a nearby basket to dry off as he crossed to the bench where he had left his clothes. The dark yukata clung to his still damp body, but the midnight blue fabric effectively concealed his growing arousal. Grabbing his discarded uniform from the bench, he made his way back down the empty hall to his room, silently grateful that once again he managed to avoid meeting any of the shouten's inhabitants during the short trip. He could only image what his face looked like at the moment, his face felt hot as his mind conjured images of his taicho rising above him, eyes gleaming gold as he smiled down at his prey—at Shuuhei.

The black-haired fukutaicho stepped into his room and shut the door, tossing aside his clothes as he leaned back against the smooth wood behind him, eyes closing as he drew in a shuddering breath, struggling for a semblance of control. Knowing he was only delaying the inevitable, he still tried to banish the images burning in his mind, guilt and shame and arousal twisting inside him, fanning the flames of desire higher and higher. He prided himself on his calm nature, prided himself on control, and yet he couldn't control this. He'd tried telling himself that it was merely his body's way of reminding him that he hadn't taken a lover in a very long time—since before Aizen and Tousen and Gin had betrayed Soul Society—that his desire for his taicho was due only to proximity and nothing more, but he knew it for the lie that it was.

Pushing away from the door, he padded across the room to his futon, easing himself down upon the soft mattress even as he loosened the tie holding his sleeping robe closed with shaking fingers. Rolling onto his back, midnight fabric sliding across his skin, he reached down to his straining arousal, stroking it slowly from root to tip teasingly, eyes sliding closed on a soft moan as he allowed his imagination free reign.

His free hand stroked slowly down his chest, but behind his closed lids it was not his hand but his taicho's touching him. Sword calloused fingertips circled a hardening nipple before pinching the sensitive nub, hard enough to make him gasp; his fist tightened around his erection, pumping it firmly as his hips rolled at the sensation of pain mixing with pleasure. He stroked his hand upwards, head falling back against the pillow to bare his throat, a whimper of raw need escaping him as he lightly scratched blunt nails across tender skin, fingers continuing upwards to his mouth, teasingly stroking across his bottom lip before he slipped two inside, suckling at his own flesh as he imaged his captain's fingers gliding against his tongue, ordering him to 'suck' in a harsh, hoarse whisper, amber eyes burning down at him from above.

Freeing his fingers with a soft 'pop', Shuuhei slipped his hand back down his body, shivering as goose bumps rose along the wet path he traced, hips still moving his aching cock through his stroking fist. He spread his legs, bending one knee as his hand slid along the tender skin of where thigh met hip, teasing his way behind the tight orbs of his sac to circle one finger around the puckered edges of his untried entrance. A soft groan spilled from his throat as he slipped the slender digit inside, brow knitting at the slight pain, and he waited for his body to relax before pumping it slowly in and out. Slipping in a second finger, a soft cry tore free of his throat at the feeling of being stretched, the alien sensation of being filled unfamiliar but not unpleasant. Swiping his thumb over the leaking slit of his cock to spread the pre-cum already dripping from the tip, he sped his strokes, scissoring the fingers inside him and feeling for the bundle of nerves—

Dark eyes flew open in surprise as bright, hot pleasure swept through him, spine bowing as a rough moan tore from his throat. He aimed for that spot again, hand working at his cock, hips rocking upwards, writhing between his hand and the mattress beneath him as the gathering pressure at the base of his spine signaled his oncoming orgasm. Slipping a third finger inside himself in an aching need to be filled, the bright pain sent him tipping over the edge…

"Taicho!"

He spilled over his hand, thick seed spurting as his climax slammed through him, his moans filling the room as his body shuddered through his orgasm, stroking hand milking every last drop from his aching cock till there was nothing left. He fell limply back against the bed, whimpering softly as he removed his fingers, and the whimper turned to a sob.

Throwing an arm across his eyes when he felt the prick of hot tears against his closed lids, he breathed deeply in order to calm himself, his body wracked with shudders of an entirely different sort. Once again he had dishonored his taicho…

Maybe he deserved this punishment.

Though he had tried to deny it, telling himself over and over again that what he felt for his captain was merely simple admiration and respect, he was forced to confront the fact that the growing ache in his chest had nothing to do with his worry that he would lose the position he had worked so hard to obtain but a fear of losing his place at his taicho's side. It left him feeling raw, and vulnerable, and he knew now that he was in serious trouble—worse still he had no clue as to how he was going to fix it.

Grimacing at the feel of semen drying on his skin, he forced himself upright long enough to grab his obi from where it lay on the floor and wiped himself off, tossing the strip of fabric aside with a mental note to wash it in the morning, his thoughts very dark as he switched off the lamp and climbed back into bed to lie staring up at the ceiling with burning eyes and an aching heart. Lost in his contemplations, Shuuhei never noticed when the tiny gap in his door slid closed, nor did he hear the near-silent padding of footsteps moving away down the hall.

It was a long time before he finally succumbed to exhausted slumber.


	3. Unexpected Reunions

**Title: **Unexpected Reunions

**Author: **gypsygrrl420

**Rating:** NC-17

**Warnings: **None (again, MaleS doesn't really need a warning, lol).

**Summary:** Kensei's arrival in Karakura

_A/N:_ _I'm sorry to my flist that had already read this; seems like my journal ate the original entry, forcing me to repost. I am really, really sorry to you all._

Disclaimer: _I don't own Bleach or any of it's characters_--_that honor belongs to Kubo Sensei. I just like to play with them a bit._

The cool night air of Karakura settled around him as he stepped free of the Senkaimon, the quiet peace of the deserted street soothing the impatience that had been gnawing at him for the last two days; he'd wanted to leave for the Real World immediately, but had realized midway through his packing that he couldn't simply up and vanish without a word to anyone. As the 9th's captain he held certain duties and responsibilities to both his men and the rest of Soul Society, ones that couldn't be ignored in favor of his personal life. So he had changed into a clean uniform and sought out his 3rd seat, informing the man that he would be in charge in the absence of both taicho and fukutaicho and making sure the officer was capable of handling things while he was gone.

Kensei smiled to himself as he made his way down the quiet streets leading towards the Vizard's warehouse; he needn't have worried about his 3rd's qualifications. In the months following the betrayal, Hisagi had taken over the running of the 9th, and the entire division had followed his lead. If he hadn't been reinstated, Hisagi would have most likely been promoted to captain and his 3rd elevated to fukutaicho. He had been expecting some resentment from the ranks of his seated officers during those first few weeks, but there had been surprisingly little resistance or grumbling—a fact he attributed to his fukutaicho's influence. Hisagi's immediate acceptance of him had gone a long way to soothing any ruffled feathers his reinstatement might had caused, and Kensei knew that if the young man hadn't been so welcoming, his early days as leader of the division would have been much more difficult.

Even though it was well after nightfall, he figured he would find his lieutenant at the warehouse; the younger man was utterly thorough when it came to work, and even though this little assignment had only been a desperate attempt at putting some much-needed distance between himself and the object of his desire, he knew his fukutaicho would be taking his mission seriously. A tiny stab of guilt wormed its way through his conscience at the thought of the younger man working so hard because of the Vizard's selfishness; he'd discovered almost immediately that he had gained himself one of the most dedicated officers in the Gotei, one who performed his duties efficiently and without complaint—the exact opposite of his former fukutaicho in both work ethic and temperament. Not only did Hisagi perform the normal duties of division lieutenant, he also had taken over the running of the Seireitei News, a job Kensei had been all too happy to let him keep. The reinstated taicho had no interest in publishing, while his fukutaicho clearly had a passion for it; the normally somber young man had been fairly radiating enthusiasm as he'd taken Kensei on a tour of the newspaper's office, introducing him to the officers that staffed the News who eyed the Vizard warily, as one would a large, hungry predator. He'd only vaguely understood Hisagi's talk of circulation and subscriptions and his hopes for the paper's future, but he'd known that he could leave the paper in his fukutaicho's capable hands without worry. As the weeks turned into months, he had been grateful for that decision; his lieutenant's duties as editor-in-chief took him away from their shared office twice a week, allowing Kensei to continue denying his attraction for that much longer. Of course, he had been all too aware of the dark-haired shinigami's absence, and had found himself covertly studying the other man that much more closely when he returned to work the following day, the tension that had built inside him when he was gone easing, replaced by another sort of tension that saw him lying in his bed with his hand wrapped around his cock, determinedly _not_ thinking about his lieutenant as he stroked himself to completion. On the days following those kinds of nights, he would find himself snarling at each and every member of his division, until they were all tiptoeing about him in fear of rousing his ire, and he'd finally decided that drastic measures had to be taken before he alienated the entire division.

He'd ordered Hisagi to Karakura on one of those days he spent in the newspaper's offices, going out of his way to seek him out instead of suffering through one more night of frustration and fantasy that always ended with the image of his fukutaicho spread out beneath him. His lieutenant had been poring over submissions for the newspaper's next edition at his desk, engrossed in whatever he had been reading, and Kensei had allowed himself the guilty pleasure of watching from the doorway. For the thousandth time since the silver-haired Vizard had returned to Soul Society, he had found his gaze hungrily drinking in that all-too serious face, memorizing the minute changes in expression as the other man read, unwilling fascinated as he watched his lieutenant at work. A full minute had passed before he'd been able to shake himself free of his reverie and he'd cleared his throat to gain the black-haired man's attention—only to find himself fighting back a smile when Hisagi had glanced up and he'd caught sight of the smudge of ink decorating one high cheekbone, just beside the bold black lines of the '69' tattoo marking the young man's face. His fingers had itched with the desire to reach out and wipe that smudge away, and he'd curled his hand into a fist to prevent him from doing just that…

Kensei grinned to himself as he neared the warehouse; if his mission was successful he wouldn't have to suppress those sorts of desires any longer. If Hisagi were his lover he could touch the other man whenever he liked, though he would save most of his caresses for the privacy of the bedroom; his reserved fukutaicho would most likely protest having sex in the office, though perhaps over time Kensei would be able to talk him into trying it.

Picturing the younger man spread out across the shining surface of his mahogany desk, gazing up at him with lust-filled eyes and wantonly sprawled limbs, the silver-haired Vizard felt himself grow achingly erect and was thankful for the loose cut of his cargo pants. His former compatriots would tease him mercilessly if they noticed him walking around with a hard-on, and though he didn't embarrass easily, he was sure one or more of them would gleefully point it out to Hisagi. No, that was not at all how he wanted his fukutaicho to discover the reason for his taicho's sudden appearance.

"Oi! It's about time you showed up!"

Jerked from his musings at the sound of that belligerent voice, he focused on his surroundings to find Hiyori leaning in the open doorway of the warehouse, scowling up at him.

"Good to see you too, Hiyori," he murmured dryly, but her scowl only deepened as she turned her back on him, entering the crumbling building without another word, leaving him to follow.

Face not betraying his rising anticipation, his eyes swept the dimly-lit interior of the building he had called home for over a century, searching for his lieutenant's familiar black-clad form, frowning when he didn't see Hisagi. Rose was seated on his favorite ratty old sofa, softly strumming a melody on his guitar while Love reclined beside him reading a manga, most likely one that he had borrowed from Lisa. The former fukutaicho of the 8th division was seated across from the two men in an armchair that matched the sofa for rattiness, long, bare legs swinging gently as she flipped a page of her own book, engrossed in whatever she was reading.

"Kensei!"

His attention was yanked away from the three Vizard by a happy screech that had him wincing, turning as a blur of green, white and orange came flying towards him from across the open room. He caught Mashiro as she launched herself at him, a reluctant grin twitching at the corners of his mouth as her slim arms wrapped around his neck with near-choking strength. So maybe he had missed her just a little bit…

"I see the prodigal returns. Did you get bored of Soul Society already, Kensei? Or did the shinigami kick you out?"

Shinji emerged from the shadows, head tilted down so only his smile was visible beneath the brim of his hat, and Kensei gently pried his former lieutenant's arms from his neck, setting her down carefully as he turned towards the blond, his own teeth showing as he grinned down at the skinny Vizard who had been their _de facto _leader.

"Neither. Aren't I allowed to come by and say 'hi' once in awhile?" he asked, feeling the weight of the others' stares on him as he gazed steadily down at Shinji. The former taicho of the 5th lifted his head, a touch of bitterness showing in his brown eyes as he examined the bigger man in silence, taking in the familiar cargo pants and jersey, making Kensei thankful that he had decided against wearing his uniform and haori. Though Yamamoto's offer had been extended to them all, Kensei had been the only one who had chosen to return to Soul Society, the others having decided they were happier in the Real World; his cool reception by the rest of the Visoreds—with the exception of Mashiro, of course—made him realize that they had been more upset by his leaving than he had thought and left him wondering if he had made a mistake in sending Hisagi to them.

"Oh? So this is a social call? You finally remembered your friends? Or are you here for some other reason—like a certain black-haired shinigami?" Shinji asked slyly, customary smile back in place as he cocked his head to one side, and Kensei mentally cursed himself for forgetting that the blond was far more perceptive than he appeared. Still, it wouldn't do to let his consternation at being so easily read show.

"I've been a little busy," he replied dryly, earning a derisive snort from one of the three behind him, but he didn't bother turning to see who, his gaze steady on the skinny man in front of him. His impatience had returned, but he reminded himself that he had waited six months already—a few more minutes wouldn't hurt if it meant soothing Shinji's obviously ruffled feathers. The ex-captain's smile disappeared, his expression turning serious as he studied the taller man.

"You look tired, Kensei. They giving you trouble over there?" he asked finally, and the silver-haired Vizard felt the tension coiling inside him vanish at the concern he heard in the blond's voice. One corner of his mouth twitched upwards in a smile as he shook his head.

"It's like I never left. To be honest, I had expected some resistance, but the men took Hisagi's lead and have been very welcoming."

"So you get along with your new fukutaicho then?" Shinji asked lightly, a strange gleam appearing in his eyes—one that spelled trouble. Kensei had seen that particular gleam before, usually right before the blond said or did something outrageous, and a note of disquiet slid down his spine at the sight of it now, in relation to his mention of the young shinigami.

"He's a good kid," he said cautiously, wondering what Shinji was up to, and laughter erupted behind him.

"Oh yes—he's a very good kid. No matter what we do he remains unfailingly polite and respectful—though I think he's finally lost his patience with us. He only lasted an hour today," Love snickered, and Kensei turned to face him, his expression thunderous.

"What the hell are you talking about, Aikawa?"

"Eh, Shuuhei-kun is so serious, and we thought you didn't like us anymore, so we played a few jokes on him is all," Mashiro chirped from beside him, dragging his attention away from Love and down to her. She was beaming up at him, eyes wide with feigned innocence, and he had to curb to the urge to throttle her—to throttle them all. He knew exactly what kind of 'jokes' they liked to play—he would be lucky if Hisagi even deigned to speak with him after this, let alone indulge in any kind of physical relationship with his taicho.

"You played a few jokes on him," he stated flatly, and she nodded cheerfully. Either she didn't notice the dangerous undercurrents swirling through his reiatsu or she was ignoring them on purpose.

"Well, not really jokes. We just ignored him for the most part—though Mashiro enjoyed playing with his hair. He looks adorable in pigtails."

Kensei could only blink, trying to imagine his serious fukutaicho with his hair tied up in clips and ribbons, and the resulting mental image was far too appealing, especially considering his present company.

"My, my—you should see your face, Kensei. Do I even want to know what kind of perverted thoughts are circling about in your brain at the moment?" Shinji asked teasingly, only to receive a withering glare from the silver-haired Visored.

"That's rather rich coming from you, Shinji," Kensei growled, but the skinny ex-captain's smile merely widened.

"Oho! He doesn't know, does he? The kid's got absolutely no clue that his beloved hero wants to toss him down and fuck him senseless!"

Kensei felt his eyebrow twitch in response and only just managed to contain his rising growl, silently damning the blond for the unwelcome reminder that Hisagi viewed him not as a man or even a respected taicho but as some sort of savior to be placed atop a lofty pedestal and admired from afar—though to be fair to his fukutaicho, the kid had quit the awestruck groupie act fairly quickly, once Kensei had put his foot down on _that_ sort of behavior. He didn't need nor want that sort of worship, especially not from his young lieutenant.

"You know, if you wait too long someone else might come along and snatch him up—he's actually rather attractive if one overlooks the dour personality and the scars and tattoos."

_Don't hit him, don't hit him, don't hit him_.

Oh, but he wanted to—his hand fairly itched with the desire to smash Shinji's grinning face.

"Oi! Knock it off, Baldy! I don't feel like cleaning up your blood tonight!" Hiyori suddenly appeared from wherever she had been hiding, smacking the blond in the head with her sandal. The mounting need to do violence to the other man vanished at the normalcy of the scene, one he had witnessed thousands of times over the years, and he felt the tension inside him melt away. Ignoring Shinji's predicament, he turned back to the three Vizard sitting nearby.

"I take it Hisagi isn't here," he stated casually, hoping one of the three more level-headed members of the little group would be able to tell him where his fukutaicho was.

"He's been gone for hours. Urahara-san mentioned that he'd been returning later and later each night, but since the War ended the number of Hollows hanging about Karakura has decreased—you'll probably find him back at the shouten by now," Lisa commented disinterestedly, not bothering to look up from her manga. Kensei frowned at the cryptic statement, wondering what the hell the number of Hollows in Karakura had to do with his lieutenant, but he knew asking her for an explanation would do him little good; unlike Hiyori and Shinji, the former fukutaicho of the 8th division showed her annoyance in far more subtle ways. He was just going to have to find out what she meant for himself.

"Kensei."

He'd started for the door without a further word, unease coiling through him now, but paused when she called his name, glancing back to find her gazing at him with a somber expression.

"Yeah?" It came out rougher than he'd intended, but he was suddenly tired and more than a little irritated by his former companions' reception. To her credit she didn't even flinch, instead offering him a tiny smile.

"Good luck—and don't do anything rash," she said softly. He held her gaze for a long moment before nodding, one corner of his mouth quirking upwards in return.

"Thanks, Yadomaru. I'll be back in the morning."

He didn't bother waiting for a reply, leaving the warehouse and flash-stepping towards the shouten where he would hopefully find his lieutenant.

The silver-haired Vizard bit back a curse at the sight of the shopkeeper seated on the steps leading up to the porch at the rear of the shop, those sharp, sharp eyes glittering from the shadows cast by his ever-present hat as he watched Kensei's approach.

"Good evening, Muguruma-kun—or should I say 'Muguruma-taicho'?" The greeting was delivered in an unusually serious tone, one rarely heard from the normally playful ex-taicho and the reinstated captain paused at the foot of the stairs, wondering what had caused the change in the shopkeeper's usual demeanor.

"What's with the sudden formality?" he asked bluntly, gazing down at the seated man suspiciously. Instead of replying, however, Urahara rose to his feet, padding barefoot across the porch to the open door of the shop.

"Shuu-kun just left his bath and is preparing for bed—I suggest you do the same and wait until morning to let him know you're here. Tessai readied a room for you down the hall," the blond said quietly as he stepped inside, waiting for Kensei to follow before closing and locking the door. The silver-haired man didn't bother asking how Tessai even knew he would be coming; like Urahara, the former commander of the Kido Corp. seemed to possess an almost uncanny knack of ferreting out information. He followed his host deeper down the hall, amazed as always at how much bigger the shouten was on the inside in relation to its somewhat humble exterior; he'd long ago given up on trying to figure out how the shopkeeper had managed to twist the laws of space and dimension to suit his needs as trying to think like the brilliant ex-taicho only resulted in making his head ache. He merely accepted the fact that Urahara was a genius and left it at that.

The shopkeeper paused in front of a door, glancing back at Kensei. "Good night, Muguruma-kun. Please don't do anything rash."

With that said, the blond continued down the hall, leaving the Vizard scowling after him. First Yadomaru, and now Urahara—what the hell did they expect him to do?

'_They know what we want. He's so close, so vulnerable--Ours.' _

His Hollow made itself known, its voice cajoling, tempting; he could feel his fukutaicho's nearness, the subtle brush of Hisagi's reiatsu against his skin a caress that had the Vizard's control slipping. He was so damn close…

'_Kensei, don't do anything foolish. Don't do something that you will regret later—morning is soon enough.'_

Tachikaze's warning went unheeded as Kensei moved further down the hall, stopping in front of a blank door only a few feet from his own room. He could sense his lieutenant just on the other side, heard the faint rustle of fabric sliding against skin and was unable to prevent himself from reaching out, sliding the shoji open a crack. He told himself he just wanted a glimpse of the younger man, that he would be satisfied with a quick look inside and that once he had seen his fukutaicho he would take himself off to bed…

Amber eyes widened as his gaze fell on his lieutenant and it was all he could do to stifle a groan as lust exploded inside him.

Most of the room was hidden from view, but the futon was in direct line with the door, softly illuminated by the light cast by a single lamp. His fukutaicho lay atop the covers, dark sleeping yukata falling open along either side of his lean body to reveal a mouth-watering expanse of pale golden flesh. Kensei shuddered as a soft moan tore from Hisagi's throat, one hand sliding up his chest while the other slipped downwards, long fingers curling about a straining erection and stroking slowly, slim hips rolling with a hypnotic grace that held the watching man transfixed. He knew he should leave, that he was violating his fukutaicho's privacy, but he couldn't move, afraid to alert Hisagi to his presence.

Questing fingertips sought and found a dusky nipple, circling teasingly before pinching firmly, eliciting a gasp that was half-pain and half-pleasure; the erotic sound loosened Kensei's control another notch, forcing him to grip the doorframe in a white-knuckled grasp as his cock hardened painfully. His imagination was _nothing_ compared to the reality before him. The silver-haired Vizard watched helplessly as that hand moved upwards, gliding over the tempting arch of a submissively-bared throat, biting back a possessive growl at the display as his Hollow came roaring to the surface. His fukutaicho's whimper of raw need almost shattered his control, the sound a siren's song swirling around him, calling to everything dark and possessive and primitive inside the older man.

Two slender digits slipped past parted lips, his lieutenant suckling his fingers, wetting them thoroughly before sliding them free and back down his body; Kensei swallowed hard as the dark-haired man stroked his damp fingers lower and lower, legs parting and his far knee bending to give the watching Vizard a perfect view of those teasing fingers slipping down behind his sac, seeking out the tiny pucker of his hole. Amber eyes narrowed at the breathy, pain-filled moan, shaking him from his lust-induced haze, and he tore his gaze from the entrancing sight of Hisagi's lower body to look at his face, frowning when he saw the furrowed brow and tightly closed eyes that indicated the kid was unused to this. Kensei couldn't help the sense of possessive satisfaction that rose within him at the realization, nor did he mind the echoing of his Hollow's triumphant laugh as it too understood that the one it had chosen as its 'mate' was untainted; even Tachikaze held himself silent and watching, his earlier disapproval vanishing as he too fell under the spell the young man unknowingly was weaving.

A soft cry drew his attention away from his Inner World and back to the dark-haired young man writhing slowly on the bed only a few feet away from where the silver-haired man stood watching; he drank in the vision of his lieutenant's pleasure, his own body throbbing for a release. He held himself back, not wanting to miss a single moment of this private show; no matter what happened after this night, he would always have this memory of Hisagi to cherish.

Kensei knew exactly when the kid found his prostate; dark eyes flew open on a rough moan, his long, lean body bowed off the bed, head turning to press one cheek against his pillow as both hands quickened their pace between his long legs. It was one of the most beautiful sights Kensei had ever been fortunate enough to witness…

"Taicho!"

His fukutaicho's climax was torn from him with a keening wail, the title both plea and promise to the man watching unseen from the doorway; savage joy and possessiveness filled Kensei at the sound, echoed by his Hollow's exultant roar. Tachikaze sighed deeply, contentment radiating from the spirit in something akin to both pleasure and blessing. For the first time since his return to Soul Society, Kensei felt as if he had come home. He watched as his lieutenant's lean body shuddered through the aftershocks of his orgasm, his hand slowing as he milked himself, moaning softly as he rode out the last waves of pleasure before falling limply back against the futon, whimpering softly as he slipped his fingers free of his body. Admiring the thoroughly debauched picture his fukutaicho made sprawled languidly across his bed, sweat-dampened limbs gleaming in the soft glow of the lamplight, glistening seed spattered across his belly and chest and fingers, he found himself smiling faintly—a smile that faded abruptly when he heard a quiet sob leave the other man's throat. Sharp amber eyes flew to Hisagi's face just as the young man threw his arm across his eyes, hiding his expression, but Kensei had caught the abject misery etched across his fukutaicho's face in that split second; the dark-haired young man sobbed again, and then his body was shaking with the force of his tears, and Kensei could only stare at him through the tiny gap in the door in dismay. The joy he had felt only moments ago died in the face of his lieutenant's heartbroken tears, and as much as he wanted to step inside that room and offer comfort, he was more afraid of screwing things up even further. He had spied on a private moment, one he was never meant to see, and his lieutenant would be mortified if he knew his captain had seen him.

The Vizard forced himself to close the door and allow Hisagi his privacy, reluctantly turning away and padding back down the hall to his room silently. He held onto the reminder that his fukutaicho had called out 'taicho!' in his moment of climax, and though there were plenty of captains in Soul Society, he was the only one the dark-haired young man called by title alone. For now it was enough to know that his lieutenant desired him; tomorrow he would take steps to discover how much, and if there was even a possibility that Hisagi would be interested in taking a more permanent place at his captain's side.

Letting himself into his own room, Kensei readied himself for bed, his mind caught up in possible plans of action that he would implement come morning.


	4. Misconstruing Motives

_A/N: This took me forever to write and I apologize to everyone who has been waiting for this chapter. I still don't know how long this story will wind up being, but expect at least two more chapters after this (though there may be more). From here on out, POV will switch between Kensei and Shuuhei in each chapter. Enjoy!_

"_Let me see your face…I want to see your face while I still can." _

_Kazeshini was screeching in his head, calling him stupid and idiotic and reminding him that Tousen had tossed him aside like so much garbage, but he ignored the spirit to lean closer to the broken, dying man, unable to deny his former captain this small request. Despite the lies and betrayals, the man had taken him from the slums of Rukongai and given him an unattainable dream…_

_Wholly white eyes tracked over his face, the weight of that formerly sightless gaze coming to rest on the numbers etched beneath his left cheekbone. Full lips parted, forming a soundless "Goodbye Hisagi", and Shuuhei's eyes widened as he felt spirit energy suck inward in preparation to fire a cero blast—_

_He reacted to the threat without conscious thought, his own reiatsu flaring to counter the attack, and the monster he had once revered exploded in a shower of blood and flesh and bits of bone, drenching the kneeling fukutaicho in gore. He could taste Tousen's blood on his lips, feel it soaking through his uniform to lay slick and almost greasy against his bare skin, and the overpowering smell—combined with the knowledge that _he_ had done this—made his stomach twist with silky, burning nausea…'_

Shuuhei bolted upright in bed, heart thundering and breaths coming in short, gasping pants, and it was a full minute before he realized that he was in his room at the shouten and not kneeling atop a ruined building in the fake Karakura Town and covered in his former captain's blood.

The shakes set in then, self-loathing and disgust and a host of other, darker emotions too muddled together to name clearly twisting through him wracking his lean form till he thought he might actually void the meager contents of his stomach—his frantic gaze darted about the sterile confines of his borrowed quarters for a receptacle so he didn't sully the floor while a hand clamped over his mouth as the sour sting of bile burned the back of his throat, and only the fact that he had forgotten to eat (_again_) made the lack of bucket or bin or even a blasted _vase_ bearable…there was simply nothing in his stomach to throw up.

He could _feel_ Tousen's blood on him, though, like an oily film against his skin, and the phantom sensation sent him scrambling from the twisted covers of his futon with the need to get clean beating frantically in his chest like a trapped, helpless bird behind glass.

Cool air against his skin arrested his flight towards the door, and he glanced down to see his yukata hanging open, reminding him of his activities the night before, and an all-new shame flashed through him. _Again_. He'd succumbed to his unhealthy desires yet again, had sullied his captain in thought and deed once more…

Worse still, he had done so even after realizing that the other man probably hated him.

His stomach heaved once more, and lack of food or no, his body was still _trying_ to purge itself. His throat was burning, his mouth flooded by thin, sour bile, and there was nowhere for it to go. It hurt to swallow, but swallow he did, unwilling to dirty the floor, unwilling to leave the shopkeeper evidence that everything _was not fine_. He'd fought so long to preserve the fiction he'd clung to for so many decades, preserve the illusion that he was _alright_, that he remained _unaffected_ by Tousen's betrayal, by the Vizards' return, by his unnatural, unwanted lust for his captain-who-wanted-him-gone…no, he couldn't lose it now. He had to stay strong, ignore the ever-increasing blows that were dealt and roll with the punches. _He was_ _not weak, damnit! _He would finish his time here in the Real World, endure the Vizards, and return to Soul Society where his captain would most likely dismiss him from his post as fukutaicho of the 9th—and he would stand tall and take this latest blow with dignity and an outward show of composure to mask the final shattering of his soul. It was only fitting that Muguruma Kensei deal the last blow; the man had given him life, and he would be the one to take it away.

Resolute in this at least, his uneasy, delicate stomach under control, he turned to dress in his uniform, only to find the familiar pile of black and white clothing absent. In its place was a stack of Real World clothing, neatly folded and placed on the chair where hakama, kosode and shihakushou would normally lie.

For a long moment he blinked at the small pile in disbelief, not that someone had entered his room while he slept, oh no—though that caused a small amount of discomfort all on its own—but rather that his _uniform_—the symbol of his place as a shinigami—was _gone._ It was as if his identity had been utterly, thoroughly erased, as if he were already dismissed from his post as Muguruma-taicho's lieutenant, and the realization _hurt_. How _dare_ Urahara do this? How _dare_ the shopkeeper take this from him? Of everything he had lost so far, the loss of his uniform was the harshest blow, and _not_ the shopkeeper's place to deal.

But he couldn't confront the ex-captain in his sleepwear, no matter how furious he was—his own sense of modesty and restraint would not countenance his emerging from his room in such a state of dishabille. He had no choice but to draw on the clothing so _thoughtfully_ provided, and once dressed, he stormed from his room to confront his host.

He avoided Kisuke's piercing gaze, focusing all of his attention on the steaming mug of coffee Tessai had so thoughtfully provided knowing the silver-haired man's preference for the beverage over tea in the morning—only Hisagi could make his tea just the way he liked it—and tried to quell the nervous anticipation fluttering in his stomach at the thought of seeing his lieutenant again face-to-face. He _knew_ the road ahead of him would be a long one, and arduous—Hisagi was not one to fall prey to pretty words, even if Kensei had the capability to offer them. The memory of his lieutenant's private moment the night before had haunted his dreams, making it difficult to sleep, and the despair he'd witnessed afterwards had sent guilt flooding his very being. _He_ had done this…he knew that as clear as day, and didn't need Tachikaze's scolding to make that fact perfectly clear, though his zanpakuto had certainly given him an earful, even after he'd snarled at the spirit to '_shut the fuck up_'. He'd spent hours lying awake, formulating and discarding plans till exhaustion had dragged him into slumber to dream of his fukutaicho's lean, lithe form and breathless cries of pleasure, and when he had been roused by a _far_ too cheerful shopkeeper, he'd risen from his bed feeling sluggish and snappy with temper, with no definite plans to win his prize. Irritation surrounded him in a black cloud, and the piercing grey-green gaze currently dissecting him from across the low table where he sat silently with the other ex-captain only sharpened his already-foul temper.

"Ah, it appears young Hisagi-kun is awake," said ex-captain murmured, snapping his ever-present fan closed and laying it on the table beside his own steaming mug of tea. The green-and-white striped hat—a ridiculous affectation—cast a shadow across the shopkeeper's eyes, but didn't conceal the glint of amusement in those murky depths.

Kensei extended his reiatsu, searching for Shuuhei's, only to have it recoil as it hit the oncoming storm of the younger man's power. From the feel of the wild, crackling energy, Hisagi was _pissed_, and though ordinarily the Vizard captain would take pleasure in sensing such depth of emotion from his usually composed fukutaicho, right now it was the last thing he needed.

The chaotic energy roiled through the doorway just ahead of the younger man, and Kensei braced himself as it splashed violently against his own reiatsu, forcing himself to sip casually at his coffee as he waited for his lieutenant to appear, wondering what had set off the normally calm shinigami.

"_Where the _fuck_ is my uniform_?"

He choked on the mouthful of coffee he'd just imbibed as Hisagi stalked into the kitchen, dark eyes narrowed on the blond shopkeeper seated on the other side of the table, seemingly unaware of the silver-haired man sitting mere inches away, his lean figure radiating the promise of swift, remorseless violence. But it wasn't the snarled question that had startled the Vizard, or at least, not that alone; nor was it the fact that his composed, stoic fukutaicho was ready to rend Urahara limb from limb—though that too was certainly startling in and of itself. No, Kensei's reaction stemmed purely from the bolt of lust that had slammed into him when he caught sight of what his second was _wearing_.

In the sleeveless shitagi and kosode and voluminous hakama of his uniform, Hisagi was an attractive man, yet easily recognizable as a blooded warrior of the Gotei.

Dressed in slim-cut, well-worn jeans that hugged endlessly long legs and an equally worn, torso-skimming tee shirt the color of charcoal, the aura of "soldier" vanished entirely, emphasizing the wild, feral beauty of the man that lie beneath the rank. Out of uniform, Hisagi Shuuhei's attractiveness was like a blow, hitting Kensei square in the gut. Even if he hadn't already made up his mind to pursue and capture the younger man—to make him _his_—the sight of him in casual Living World fashion would have cemented his decision for him.

"Now, now, Hisagi-kun, your uniform is perfectly safe in Tessai's hands, and I am ashamed to say that I was remiss in not providing you more appropriate attire much sooner," the shopkeeper murmured, his eyes raking over the lean figure standing before him with an avid gleam that Kensei _did not_ like. A low, menacing growl of warning left the Vizard's throat, dragging Kisuke's attention from the younger man—and drew Hisagi's unfriendly gaze to his captain.

The surprise in those dark green irises would have been comical if the vice captain hadn't immediately turned sheet white.

"T-taicho!"

Before Kensei could stop him, Hisagi was making his obeisance, gracefully falling to one knee and bowing his head to his superior, the lines of his body taut with…_tension_? _Or was it fear?_

The kid looked like he was expecting a blow.

Kensei felt his eyebrows draw together in a scowl; when had he _ever_ given Hisagi cause for fear? He would _never _hurt the younger man, even if he hadn't wanted him so desperately that his Hollow _howled_ its possession inside his head.

"Get up, kid. That's not necessary here," he said, more sharply than he intended, and watched helplessly as the younger man _flinched_ before rising gracefully to his feet, refusing to meet his captain's gaze.

"Of course, Taicho. I apologize," he murmured quietly.

Kensei glanced over at Kisuke, expecting to find amusement dancing in gray-green eyes, but the ex-captain's expression was curiously grim as he watched his guests' interaction. Beneath the brim of the ridiculous striped hat, those sharp eyes were narrowed very slightly, and the look he shot Kensei was unreadable.

"Tessai is cleaning and repairing your uniform, Hisagi-kun, and will return it to you once he is finished. I felt, however, that you would be more comfortable in less—_formal_—attire while you are here completing your…mission."

Even if Kensei had somehow managed to miss the narrow-eyed glance the shopkeeper sent his way, the blond's tone—along with the words of caution he'd delivered the night before—told him clearly that Kisuke was very much aware of _why_ the Vizard had sent Shuuhei to the Living World, and he did not approve.

"But—"

"Leave it be, kid. He's right—you'll get more done if you're not dressed like a shinigami. _I_ made a mistake by not telling you that they wouldn't welcome you dressed like my lieutenant, and I'm sorry that you had to deal with their bullshit because I'm an idiot."

It was as close as he was going to get to telling Shuuhei that his "mission" was fabricated solely on Kensei's desire to distance himself from the object of his growing obsession; he'd come to his senses three days ago, and now all he had to do was use this mini-vacation in the Real World to secure the younger man's affection—a task he wasn't foolish enough to believe would be an easy one, not when Hisagi was looking at him with those cautiously blank eyes that refused to reveal his fukutaicho's thoughts.

"I apologize, Taicho, for offending your friends with my presence."

There, a hint of defensiveness—good. Not ideal, but he'd take it over the emotionless façade that hid what Hisagi was thinking any day.

"My _friends_ are morons who need their collective heads knocked together. And trust me, if they were offended by your presence they would have done far more than play pranks on you," he growled, remembering Mashiro's mirth from the night before. He'd been stupid and selfish, throwing Shuuhei to the wolves like he had. He was damned if he would let them continue treating him that way.

"I failed—"

Kensei cut his lieutenant off before he could continue. "No, you didn't fail. I sent you to them unprepared, and though I'm technically on vacation here, I'm not about to let them keep messing with you."

The younger man's expression went absolutely blank, and the Vizard knew he had just stepped in it, though he wasn't quite sure _how_.

"I'm sorry, Taicho, that I do not meet your standards as a vice captain, and that you felt the need to interrupt your vacation to correct my mistakes—" he began in a deadened tone, and Kensei's eyes widened in shock. _That's_ what was bothering Shuuhei? He really thought that—oh _hell_ no!

"Hisag—Shuuhei. Stop. Shut up with that, alright?" The dark-haired man's mouth closed with a snap, his eyes having widened at the informal use of his first name. "I don't find you lacking in any way as a fukutaicho—as _my_ fukutaicho. You're dedicated, intelligent, and have made my reinstatement—something that you had every right to feel resentment over—smooth as silk. Compared to every other vice captain in the Gotei, you're the only one I want under me," he said, ignoring the amused glint in the shopkeeper's eyes at the unconscious double entendre, especially when he saw the flush of color rise into Hisagi's face and the pleasure shining in those dark, cat-like eyes at the compliment.

Fuck, he wanted to see those eyes lit with pleasure for an entirely different reason—but this was a start.

"This is your mission, I'm only here to offer you support," he finished in a quieter voice, hoping that his vice captain would accept his offering. If he didn't—well, he would think of something else.

After a long moment's hesitation, that dark head finally nodded, long lashes sweeping down to veil those shining green irises almost shyly, and Kensei fought the urge to leap upon the younger man, his Hollow crooning wordlessly in his ear.

"Thank you, Taicho."

"Now that _that's_ settled, what do you say to breakfast, Hisagi-kun?"

The shopkeeper's cheery voice interrupted the moment before it could grow too heavy, and for once, Kensei was glad for the ex-captain's presence.

Shuuhei nodded, settling himself at the table between his captain and the blond, and Kisuke called for Tessai to bring them food.

Kensei thought that maybe, just maybe, this wouldn't be as difficult as he had thought.


End file.
